When the Light Floods In
by buffyaddict
Summary: A librarian has a chance to observe and get to know Sam and Dean Winchester.  She comes to realize there is more to the boysand the darkthan meets the eye. Spoilers for Phantom Traveler. Slightly AU.


Warning: this fic features an outsider POV.

* * *

The first time I see them slink into the library, I'm _this_ far from beating somebody over the head with a book. And not just any book. Something with some nice heft to it. I swear, time stopped around four o'clock this afternoon, and I now I'm trapped in an endless loop of watching Joey Tomkins stuff wads of gum to the side of his reading table. I want to stuff the gum up his nose (okay, up his ass, really) but I sit here and grind my teeth and pray for the God of Time to be merciful.

I've always wanted to be a librarian. What could be better than surrounding yourself with a world of knowledge? To have a thousand worlds at your fingertips? Being in charge of the Children's Reading Program sounds great, right? I get to order new books and run the summer reading program and organize the Harry Potter Book Reading Parties and the Spooky Lock-Inn every Halloween. But it also means dealing with politics and board meetings and bored meetings and parents who think the library is free daycare. It also means scraping gum off the tables.

So when the boys came in at endless o'clock, I'm just waiting for them to piss me off. I want nothing more than to use my Librarian Voice of Doom and kick them to the curb for whatever teenage assholery they're about to unleash. Only they don't do anything but read. And even I couldn't find fault with that. Actually, the younger one reads. The older one runs around and periodically brings books back to the table like some kind of offering. The kid at the table is tall and lanky, a mop of chestnut hair in his face, and clearly younger. And from the way his older brother is casting furtive worried glances at him, clearly in charge. The older kid wears a smirk and a swagger, but I can tell it's just for show. It's enough to make me forget about Joey and his Bubbliscious. The thing I can't figure out is why the kid looks so worried about his brother. And I'm pretty sure they _are_ brothers. There's a certain amount of eye rolling and poking between kids that only siblings can get away with.

The older boy brings another book to the table and pulls a chair out. He flips the book open and points. "Look here," he says in a voice slightly louder than I'd like, "this book has an index listing for armlocks." He makes an excited face like armlocks are what every teenage boy dreams about and taps the page. "Come on, Sammy." He backpedals with an extra eye-roll and adds, "Sam."

Sam turns his head toward the circulation desk and I blink. I try not to stare. And fail. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. The boy's face is a mass of bruises. His left eye is swollen shut and a jagged cut peeks out from either end of a butterfly bandage. Purple, red and green radiate from the corner of his split lip to his temple. My stomach drops and I wonder what happened to him. I turn back to my order list but the words swim in all directions and I can't concentrate.

"_You_ come on," Sam hisses. "I don't need a bunch of books. You can teach me."

"That's what I thought I was doing," Dean says, inching his chair closer to the table. He nods toward Sam's face. "And look how that turned out."

Sam glares. "I'm fine. Look, it wasn't worth it. Besides, you know what Dad would do."

Dean opens his mouth. So do I. Alarm bells go off inside my head. What _would_ Dad do, I want to know. Did he do this? I have visions of myself calling social services. I shake my head. _Don't be an idiot_. There's probably a logical explanation. A fight in school. A mugging. This is none of my business. I turn my attention back to Joey Tomkins and find that his table is empty. Huh.

Sam pushes a stack of books toward his brother. "I don't need these, Dean."

Dean huffs. "I think your face begs to differ, dude."

Sam ignores him and gets up. Dean looks put out. "Where are you going?"

"To focus on the real reason we're here, nimrod."

I watch Sam walk toward the reference shelves. He has the hunched look of someone who's grown too tall, too fast. He has to pass me to get to the reference stacks and I get a good view of his face. It looks even worse up close. Who would do that to a kid? He can't be more than sixteen.

I putter around my desk and pretend to work on this month's circulation reports. I'm really watching Sam and Dean pore over a variety of books on legends, myths and werewolves. Time has unstuck and it's half an hour until closing. Dean walks over and thrusts a DVD case in front of Sam's face. "Dude. Did you know there's a sequel?"

I squint surreptitiously at the box. It reads, _An American Werewolf in Paris_. "Huh?" Dean asks, with a huge leer. "_Huh_? Check out the chick. Hot, right?"

Sam pushes the DVD away, eyes still focused on the book he's reading. "_Dean_."

I hide a laugh behind a folder. Sam is some kid to pack so many emotions into a single word. I can count disgust, annoyance and amusement without even trying. I know there's more, but before I can identify them a loud voice blares through the loudspeaker. "The library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring all materials you wish to check out to the circulation desk." The announcement sparks some kind of debate between the boys and they argue quietly, heads bent together. I can't tell who wins. Finally Dean walks over the exit, jingling car keys the whole way. I'm trying to decide whether to flash him a glare or not when he looks over at me and winks. I stare after him.

Back at the table Sam is returning books to their shelves. I follow his actions suspiciously. Sure, he seems nice enough and he's been quiet, but I've seen a lot of teenage boys in the library over the years. And none of them spend that much time returning books to the reference shelves. Obviously, this is where he and his brother have some scheme cooked up, like returning the books to the wrong shelves. Tearing out pages. Hiding them behind the copier. But as I watch, there's no chicanery, no pulling of shit. Sam stops at the table and fingers the DVD. He drops his head and leans forward, both hands splayed on the table.

"Do you have _Day of the Dragon-King_?" A small voice interrupts my eavesdropping and I turn to see a little girl standing by the corner of my desk. I'm wonder if I should be worrying about Sam passing out in my library and wave the kid away. "_The Magic Tree House_ series is next to that display over there."

She blinks as if I'm speaking Urdu. I shoehorn a smile onto my face and by this time of day it's a very. Tight. Fit. "Next to the paper Mache tree house," I add helpfully, and point.

She hurries off toward the display and I look back at the table. Sam's gone. I feel a momentary pang of disappointment. Which is just stupid. It's almost time to go home, why should I care about a couple of random boys? I'm old enough to be their mother. Or maybe their aunt. Their cool aunt. And that's when I see Sam by the circulation desk. He's standing in line holding the DVD case, his backpack slung over one shoulder. I smile again, and this time the fit feels fine. He's checking out the lame werewolf movie for his brother. All at once I think of Nathan. Nathan with chestnut hair and a wiry build. But he's gone and my arms are empty and I have nothing but my books. I clear my throat and hurry over to the desk. There's a long line and Sarah and Jeanette are working through checking out the patrons. I brush past Sam and quirk an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

Sam nods, looks mildly embarrassed. "I'd like to apply for a library card," he says softly.

"I can help you with that," I say, and usher him over to a window at the far end of the counter. Jeanette is darting quizzical looks in my direction, because really, this isn't my job. But I don't care. I hand Sam a pen and a form to fill out while I read the cover of the DVD. Julie Delpy and some guy I never heard of before practice looking tragic yet beautiful.

I read upside down as he fills in the boxes. Name: Sam Winchester. Age: 15. I want to ask what happened to him, who hurt him. I want to know how his eyes got that haunted look and if he's ever going to cut his hair. I want to ask if he's okay, but I can't. He's a stranger, he's nothing to me, and for some reason this makes my throat ache. I push my glasses up on the bridge of my nose and ask casually, "So you're a fan of werewolf movies, huh?"

Sam chuckles. "Not exactly. My brother is."

I type his information into the computer. He lists his address as 233 East Northland and I know East Northland is nothing but a string of motels that have seen better days. I print out the rectangular card and run it through the laminating machine. "Here you go." I hold the card out to him, my eyes on his face.

Sam ducks his head and his eyes slide along the edge of the counter, then back to me. "I, uh, had a little problem at school," he says with a pained expression and reaches for the card.

"Well I hope the kids who did it have a _big_ problem." I say with possibly more vehemence than necessary.

He smiles down at the pen on the counter. "They got suspended," he says and slides the library card into his back pocket. He picks up the DVD and looks a question at me.

"You're good to go," I tell him. "It's due in seven days."

Sam rolls his eyes. "It'll be back way before that." And he walks away.

ooooo

The second time they come into the library I'm working on the new order list. Some of the kids have been requesting more trade paperbacks and I'm trying to decide between _Runaways_ and _Y: The Last Man_. I wonder if I can get away with ordering both series. It's three thirty and the after school crowd is trickling in. Sam and Dean trickle in with it. Sam's face doesn't look much better. Some of the swelling is down, and some of the red has switched places with purple. It still looks like he's been on the wrong end of a baseball bat. He also looks washed out around the edges. Like there's less of him than the day before.

They take over the same table as yesterday. The first thing Dean says is, "He's not mad at you."

Sam rests his chin in one hand. He sighs dramatically. "You could have fooled me."

"I know he's a hard-ass." Dean leans closer and I scoot my chair a few inches to the left. I wonder when listening in on two teenage boys became the highlight of my day. "He just doesn't want any attention, you know?"

Sam lifts his head, eyes dark. "I told you, I didn't do anything. I was walking down the hall and they jumped me. They know I'm the new kid. And you know what, Dean? I'm fucking tired of being the new kid. I'm tired of _everything_." Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand and Dean's expression goes soft.

"I'll talk to him," Dean promises.

"He's just pissed I didn't fight back," Sam hisses. "But you know what? If I had fought back, I'd be suspended right along with them."

Dean bobs his head. "I know, Sam. I know." His face hardens. "I just wish I had a chance to pound on them a while, that's all."

Sam smiles weakly. "You and me both."

"Hey Jules, can you help me with something?" Sarah is standing by my desk. I try to will her away with the power of my mind, but apparently my mind is a huge wimp because it doesn't work. I hate to be called Jules. I also hate to be interrupted when I'm trying to listen in on other people's conversations, but that's probably not something I should admit.

I sigh and force my attention to Sarah. "What do you need?"

She's come to tell me that some kids are building forts out of picture books in the back of the Children's Section. Wonderful. When I get back from shooing the kids away and re-shelving the books, neither Winchester is in sight.

ooooo

My closest friend at the library is Neela Jones. Neela's the one that got me the job here, and she's the only one who knows about Nathan. I decide to go waste some time in her office because it's almost seven and the library closes early on Tuesdays. I usually cut through the nonfiction section, and tonight is no exception. I walk past public finances, international economics and macroeconomics and turn left at law, where I almost collide with Sam Winchester. He's folded himself into a space between the air vent and the window, a pile of general law books spread around his sneakered feet. I gape in surprise and try for a smile. Sam blinks up at me, then scrambles for the books. He hurries to put them back and I keep walking because he's nothing to me. He's just a boy reading law books and we're two people in the same place at the same time and it doesn't mean anything at all. I realize I can't see Neela, not now, and make my way to the bathroom. I don't start crying until I'm safely locked inside a stall.

ooooo

It's unseasonably warm on Wednesday and I take my lunch outside. There's a picnic table by the river, but none of the employees use it. Most of us eat inside or drive downtown, but I could use some air. I take my sandwich and climb on top of the picnic table, watching the water. A duck looks toward me, decides I'm too boring to be a threat, and sails past. I'm brushing breadcrumbs off the front of my shirt when I hear the first grunt. There's another grunt, followed by the sound of skin on skin. A slap. Or a punch. Sam's face flashes into my mind and I climb off the table, heart beating faster. There's a narrow strip of grass between the river and the library. I round the corner and stop dead, one hand at my mouth, the other trailing the brick wall. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn't it.

Sam and Dean are fighting. They regard each other grimly, expressions wary, in t-shirts and jeans. Only they aren't fighting, because Dean just told Sam to hit him and now Sam's expression telegraphs annoyance. "I don't need to practice," Sam says, each word punctuated by a deep breath, "I can beat your ass just fine."

Dean snorts. "Bring it on, bitch."

And they spar. Rob had been into martial arts, and I recognize a few of the moves. But where Rob's movements had been hesitant, these were fluid and graceful. Even with the grappling and sweating, they almost seem to be dancing. Dean grabs Sam's arm and flips him backwards. Sam lands with a thud, his face contorted with pain. I take a hesitant step forward and they both look up. Dean bows and throws me a lopsided grin. "Sorry, this is just the dress rehearsal. You'll have to come back in an hour for the real show." Without even looking, Dean reaches down and finds Sam's hand, pulls him up.

Sam shakes his head, brushes off his jeans. "Sorry about that," he says. "Is it okay if we practice out here?"

"What exactly are you practicing?"

"Self defense," Dean answers. "Everyone should learn it." He tips his head at me. "What about you?"

I stare at him, my back against the wall. "What about me?"

"Do you know how to defend yourself?"

I think back to Rob's clumsy attempts to teach me various ninjitsu moves. Back before the divorce. "I know how to defend myself," I tell him. And I do. I use words. So if I ever get mugged, the asshole is going to get a real earful right before he kills me.

Dean looks skeptical. He nods toward Sam. "We can teach you if you want."

I try to imagine two teenage boys teaching me how to throw a right hook over my lunch break. It's not going to happen. Although there's a part of me that wants it to. "I'm sorry, I have to get back to work," I say, and leave them to their sparring. I imagine I can feel Sam's eyes on my back until I turn the corner.

ooooo

Thursday is when the artist comes to work on the new mural. We want a landscape of books on the east wall of the Children's Section. Towering skyscraper books, fields of books, all kinds of books. We're going to give special attention to Madeline L'Engle, S.E. Hinton, J.K. Rowling and Shel Silverstein. It takes a few tries, but she eventually gets the idea. I got to photocopy the notes for her and find Sam Winchester finger-punching the coin return button on the copier. "I find that if you don't get your change back after the first twenty times, the second twenty don't do much good."

Sam jumps and turns to looks at me. "Oh. Yeah." He sighs. "You're right." He blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite as adorable. Except for Nathan.

"Why don't you give me what you need copied. I'll use my awesome library powers and make copies in the back office."

Sam glances down at the folded paper in his hand, then back at me. He seems hesitant, but he hands the page over. "Thank you. By the way, I'm Sam."

I smile. "I'm Julia." I glance at the article he gave me. Woman killed During Mysterious Attack. Wild Animal on the Loose.

"Weird, huh?" Sam asks. "Did you hear about that? I'm working on a paper for school."

I try to recall the incident. Last month a woman was killed on her way home from her bartending job. The police said a large dog might have killed her. Which is one more reason I'm grateful to my cat. You never hear stories where a cat goes psycho and eats a toddler. I shrug. "I'm afraid I don't know anything that hasn't already been in the paper."

"Do you know if she was killed during a full moon?" he asks.

I laugh at the joke, until I see he's completely serious. I frown down at the article. "What? You think a werewolf killed her?"

Sam doesn't say anything. He just looks at me. I regard him with a fair amount of skepticism. "You believe in werewolves?"

He shrugs but maintains eye contact. "I believe in lots of things." He looks so sincere I want to believe too. But I can't. I go to make the copies.

ooooo

I spend most of Friday working. I look up periodically, scanning the first floor tables for the Winchesters. The library closes at five on Fridays, and by four I figure they're not coming. I'm not really disappointed. They're nothing to me. Just some boys. I make a final pass of the study chorals at quarter to five so I can turn backpacks in to the front desk and reshelf books. I'm in the reference section putting away a book on statutes, when I hear low voices. It's them. I hesitate, listening. They're in the farthest corner of the section, and Sam sounds upset.

"I'm tired of this," Sam says. He sounds desperate. "This isn't a life, Dean."

Dean placates, I imagine his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I know, Sammy. But things will get better. I promise."

Sam scoffs, incredulous. "Get better? How? _When_?"

Dean sighs. "I don't know. But at least we're together, right?"

There's a beat of silence, and then: "Right."

When I come out of the library at five fifteen, they're both sitting on one of the decorative benches outside the main door. My steps quicken when I see them. "Hi boys," I say.

They both look up and smile. "Hi Julia, " Sam says. Dean nods a hello. I want to sit down with them. I want to know why Sam is tired of his life.

"How's your paper coming?" I ask.

Dean studies a worn spot on the knee of his jeans.

"It's good," Sam says. "I think I have all the information I need."

"That's good. You guys have a good weekend, okay? Both of you."

"You too," Dean calls and I walk to my car.

When I get home I pull a stack of DVDs out of my bag. _An American Werewolf in Paris_ is on top.

ooooo

I don't work on Saturday, so I wander around the house. I feel lost and out of sorts and I wonder what Sam and Dean are doing. Which doesn't make any sense. I don't even know them. I could call Neela. I could call my mother. But I don't want to. Instead I get in my car and drive past 233 East Northland slow enough to make cars honk. A woman swerves around me and flips me off. I don't care. There are two cars in the parking lot. An old red VW Bug and a shiny black car that looks like it should have collector's plates. I can't imagine Sam folded inside the little Bug. The black car has to be theirs. I wonder what kind it is.

I go back home. I take a nap. I dream that Nathan is on an airplane. It crashes into a field, killing everyone but him. He crawls out of the wreckage, only to find a tall shaggy creature with three-inch claws and razor teeth waiting for him. Suddenly Julie Delpy appears and the creature runs away. She bends down and whispers in Nathan's ear _Winchesters are more than rifles_. I wake up.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary. I tell myself it's just a dream, but not really, because Nathan is still dead. The airplane still crashed. At least a werewolf didn't kill him, and I try to laugh. I can't quite pull it off. At nine I grab my purse and head over to Festival Foods. I want ice cream. Preferably mint chocolate chip. I'm almost forty years old. My son is dead. My husband is gone. And spying on two strange boys is the most fun I've had in months. Possibly years. I deserve ice cream.

The weather's nice in that spring tease sort of way. You never know if it's time to pull out your shorts or keep the parka for a few more days. Tonight it's somewhere between parka and shorts weather. Low fifties. I don't even need a coat. The moon is high dime in the sky, silver and bright. I think of Sam's newspaper article, and then the dream. I shrug both off. By the time I reach the sliding doors, I forget all about werewolves.

ooooo

I want to get home. I've got a gallon of chocolate mint and the new Stephen King paperback. It's stupid because I can get the book from the library, but I can never seem to buy just one thing at the grocery store. It feels wrong somehow. I head to my car, head high, keys out, because I've watched enough _CSI_ and _Law and Order_ to know what's what. The parking lot is more or less deserted because it's a Saturday night at nine forty-five. That's when I notice two things. One: the sound of a low growl. Two, a man standing three car lengths away. He's holding something in his hand and it shines and I think, _my God he's tall_ and _is that a knife in his hand?_ and _I'm going to die over ice cream_.

The growling grows louder and I think, _it's a dog_. A Cujo type dog. Or a pit bull. I've never heard a growl like it before and the hairs stand up all along my neck and arms and I think, _shit, shit, shit_. All I have is a cardboard gallon of ice cream and a paperback book. Even a hardback would make a better weapon. My grip tightens on my key ring. My _key_. The man takes a step toward me and all I see is looming shadow and my fear drifts away. I have to stay calm. I'll stab him in the neck. No, the eye. And then he says, _Julia_ and I drop my bag.

I know that voice. It's Sam.

The round container of ice cream rolls beneath my car. I can't breathe because it's Sam Winchester and he's such a nice boy and he knows my name and he looks like my Nathan could have looked and now he's in an empty parking lot and he's got a knife. And I'm so tired. I'm not really afraid to die, but I was hoping for something a little more peaceful, a little more dignified than a wild dog or a knife.

"Don't be afraid," he says and he walks toward me, one hand out, palm up. He moves into a cone of watery light from a street lamp and I stare, mouth open, heart twisting in my chest. There's another growl, louder this time. Higher pitched. And closer. The man in the light is Sam, but it's not. This Sam looks older. His face is free of bruises, but it's careworn, lined with sadness.

There's another voice in the darkness. "You got her, Sam?" A figure appears from behind a van. He's wearing a checked flannel shirt and even though I can't see his face I know it's Dean.

I don't know what's going on. I don't want to know what's going on.

There's another growl and it sounds like splintering wood. Like twisting metal. It sounds like death. I turn in time to see a glimpse of yellow eyes and long claws and the razor fangs from my dream. I stumble backwards, too shocked, too scared to scream and think _no, not now, not yet_. And then Sam grips my arm with iron fingers and shoves me behind him and into the side of my car. The arm with the knife slashes downward and there's a yelp, a hiss of pain. The thing stands almost as tall as Sam. I tell myself it's just a man, high on PCP or crack or something but I know it's a lie. It's a werewolf. But werewolves aren't real, so I'm stuck.

The creature that's not a werewolf lopes around the van and toward the loading dock behind the store. Dean takes off after it.

I press myself against the car shivering. I'm not cold. I'm sweating. But I can't stop shaking. Sam's arm goes around my shoulders and I look at him. He looks fifteen again. The bruises are back. I don't mean to cry, I don't want to cry, but the tears come anyway. I don't know if they're for Sam or me or for Nathan. "I don't understand," I tell him weakly. "Who are you?"

Sam pulls me into a hug and I cry into his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Sorry for what?" I ask into the wet fabric of his t-shirt.

"I don't know." And then he gently pushes me away. "For this. For everything. We just wanted to save you."

"From what?"

He gives me a steady look. I have to look away. "Werewolves aren't real," I mutter. My book is still on the ground. I kick it under the car with the ice cream.

"What was that, then?"

I can't answer.

"Listen to me, Julia," Sam says. "There are more things in the dark than you know. You have to be prepared. You have to fight back."

I wipe my face angrily. "How do you fight things that aren't real?" I demand.

"Very carefully," Sam says.

"Who_ are_ you?" I ask again.

"I told you, my name is Sam. Sam Winchester."

"I don't believe you. You did something with your face, made it look different than at the library," I accuse.

Sam sighs. His voice is weary. "We wanted you to trust us. We went back to a time I got beat up in high school."

"You went back? What does that _mean_?" My voice is spinning progressively higher and I'm beginning to think I'll never stop shaking.

Sam doesn't answer because the roar of an engine fills the lot and a black car pulls up in front of us. It's the same car I saw outside the motel. Dean's in the driver's seat and he lowers the window. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I just stare at him, trying to beam how not okay I am toward him.

Dean makes a face and shifts his gaze to Sam. "I got him." There's a hint of pride in his voice.

Sam nods. He turns to me, says "Goodbye." He walks around the front of the car and gets in. The door slams softly.

Dean leans out the window. "I'm sorry about the TransNational flight," he tells me and I go numb. My mouth is a desert and my eyes water. I can't feel my lips. "What flight?" The words feel like glass. They shatter on the ground.

"TransNational flight 2485," Dean replies solemnly.

I try to swallow but I can't. My mouth tastes like salt. "Who told you?" I ask. "How did you know?"

Sam leans forward so I can see him past Dean. "Nathan told us," he says.

They leave me beside my car, still shivering.

ooooo

I don't sleep that night.

I don't sleep the next night either. Every time I close my eyes I see the thing in the parking lot. Or the wreckage of the plane. Or Sam sitting at a library table, his dark eyes watching me.

I pace the length of my house, through the kitchen, down the hall, into the living room, down the hall and back into the kitchen. I think I'm going crazy. I think that I imagined everything outside Festival Foods. I think I imagined Sam and Dean. They're just a figment of my imagination, some kind of delayed reaction to Nathan's death. I pretend I believe it.

ooooo

I drag myself into work on Monday morning. I don't feel like going, but I don't know what else to do. When I sit down at my desk there's a business card propped against my stapler. It reads Singer Salvage Yard. And then, in careful handwriting it says _If you need to talk, call Bobby_. And under that, _Nathan loves you_. I break down right at my desk. I tell everyone I'm sick, that I have the flu, that my head hurts. I say anything that comes to mind, as long as it gets me _away_. Neela walks me out to my car, her face sympathetic. "Get some rest," she says.

I nod. Back at home I log onto the computer and type in _Sam Winchester_. There are a half dozen hits. One of them is for a Sam Winchester who's a podiatrist in Oregon. I scroll down. The next hit is about a student at Stanford University who disappeared after an apartment fire killed his fiancé. There's a grainy photo of a pretty blonde and a young man. Despite the picture quality I know instantly that it's Sam. The Sam from the parking lot anyway.

The third hit is for Sam's Gun Warehouse. It sells antique Winchester rifles. The fourth hit is about another fire. This one from 1983 that killed Mary Winchester, wife of John and mother to Sam and Dean. I read the article three times. The fifth hit is for more gun shit. The sixth hit is about a car crash in May of 2006. I find it hard to see the computer screen. The words don't want to sit still. The mouse doesn't seem to be cooperating either. In May of 2006 a semi ran into Dean Winchester's 1967 Impala. All three occupants of the car were killed. John and Dean Winchester died in the car, Sam Winchester died on the way to the hospital. The bodies were identified by a friend of the family named Bobby Singer.

None of it makes sense. How can Sam and Dean Winchester be dead? According to the article they were twenty-three and twenty-seven when they died. So how can that be? I saw them at the library. I _saw_ them.

I think of Sam's words: _I believe in lots of things_. I read the article again. I glance down at the business card for Singer Salvage Yard. Is it the same Bobby Singer who was a friend of the family? I reach for the phone. My hand is so slick with sweat I almost drop it. My ears are buzzing. I bounce my leg up and down nervously as the line rings.

"Yeah?" barks a low voice with the same inflection as gravel.

I swallow. "Is this...is this Singer Salvage Yard?"

"Yeah," says the voice. "You need a tow?"

"Um. No. I was wondering if...if you know Sam and Dean Winchester."

Silence. I wait for a response. There's nothing. I try again. "Is this Bobby?"

The voice is still rough, but the tone softens. "This is Bobby. Is this Julia?"

Now the silence is mine. I hide behind it until Bobby clears his throat. "The boys told me they were gonna visit you," he says. "Had a werewolf to take care of and make sure you were safe." There's a pause. "I take it you _are_ safe," Bobby drawls.

I nod, then realize he can't see me. "I'm. Um. Fine."

Bobby chuckles. "So you're scared shitless, huh?"

And finally, something I know is true.

ooooo

The next two days I call in sick to work. I spend the days reading books Bobby told me about. I think about Sam and Dean in the library. And outside the grocery store. I try to figure out if I'm going crazy, or if I already am. I think about the plane crash. On Wednesday afternoon I decide it's time to see Nathan.

The cemetery is deserted. The sky is the same gray as the headstones. I bring a bouquet of yellow roses and leave them at Nathan's grave. He was nine years old. I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Three boys stand near a cotton wood tree. The first boy has big solemn eyes and a head of tousled dark hair. The second boy is older, his hair is lighter. A handful of freckles are sprinkled across his nose. The third boy is Nathan.

Nathan smiles at me and I fall on my knees and I'm crying and I don't think I'll ever stop. I decide if I can hold Nathan one more time I will believe in anything Sam Winchester wants me to. Nathan walks toward me and the other two boys hang back. "These are my friends," Nathan says, and I know who they are. Nathan's voice is still high and thin, the voice of a little boy and my heart breaks and I think I might die right there on the grass. "I told them to help you," he says, and he's right in front of me now, a thin boy with chestnut hair and green eyes who might have looked a little like Sam Winchester one day. "I love you," he says, and his thin arms wrap around my neck and I pull him against me and he's solid and _real_ and _right there_ and I believe. I believe in werewolves and ghosts and everything that should be impossible but isn't.

"I love you too, baby," I whisper into his ear and I kiss the top of his head, his cheek, his forehead.

Nathan beams at me and I try hard to stop crying. I wipe my face with the back of my hand. "That's Sam and that's Dean," Nathan says, pointing. "They're brothers."

I nod. "Hi boys," I say.

"Hey." Sam smiles and ducks his head. He flickers once, twice, like a bad light bulb, and then he's fifteen again. Dean flickers too and he's nineteen. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I was hoping we could kill the werewolf before it got to you."

"It's okay," I tell him, hands on Nathan's shoulders. I look from Dean to Sam. "You both died in a car crash." It's a statement, not a question.

Sam nods, casts a look at Dean. "Actually, it was because of a demon."

Nathan looks up at me. "Oh Mom, guess what! It was a demon that killed me too. He made the airplane crash, but Sam and Dean did an exercist and made him go away." He stands on his tiptoes and hugs me again.

I look over the top of his head at Sam. "I don't know what to do now," I tell him, my eyes still watering. "What am I supposed to do? I don't think...I don't think I can keep working at the library."

"A library is the perfect place to work," Sam says with an easy smile. "Do you know how much research I've done there over the years? Besides, Bobby's not so good at computers. You never know when he might need a helping hand."

"Hey Julia?" Dean winks at me. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

I'm about to tell him that I will, or that I'll try my best, only it doesn't matter what I say because he's gone. They're all gone. I'm alone. I look down at my empty hands and the ache of loss nearly breaks me. But I won't let it. I'm going to be strong. I've seen the truth. I can't go back to the way things were. To the person I was. It feels like I've been locked in a dark basement and someone's finally ripped the floorboards away. The light floods in and there's no escaping it.

ooooo

I keep a journal now. It's where I write the things I learn from Bobby or the books he sends me. It's where I keep my memories of Sam and Dean Winchester. Sometimes I spend whole afternoons wandering the library, wondering if they're somewhere close, if they can see me. I wonder if Nathan's with them. I sit at their table with my journal and I write, like I'm writing now. I don't know why. They were just two boys. Two boys who changed my life. And they mean everything to me.


End file.
